


Paradox Poker With Your Cards Face Up

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi, Mythology - Freeform, post sburb au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So far, you've figured out the following major points:<br/>- There are 13 of you<br/>- these people are supposed to be your friends<br/>- you've lived more than your remember	</p><p>	Other than that you understand nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Box

**Author's Note:**

> Back by - strangely enough - popular request. 
> 
> Fairly different in the beginning because the real plot jumps in much quicker! I'm sorry I haven't gotten this up sooner but thank you so much to everyone who read and enjoyed what I had of the first version.

Boring. Boring. Nothing. Garbage. You flip mindlessly through the channels on your television, looking for something that at least serves as decent background noise to your work. Normally, you’d just have some sick beats blasting through your headphones, or hell, even just out loud (call the cops again Mrs. Stepheson in 403b, see if you care) but you have to hear the buzzer to let the pizza guy in so until that delicious, delicious pie makes its way to your table you’re just going to have to deal with it. 

Nothing. Nothing. Cartoons, but not any of the watchable ones. Nothing. News? Why not. It’s a weird time in the day for any serious reporting so it’s mostly just little human interest pieces. Probably like, a penguin who is raising an abandoned baby kitten with its gorilla lover or some shit. As long as it’s not re-runs of a reality show or religious programming, you’re good to go. 

It’s saturday but this most recent project is just too good to stop working on. Fully functional AI, from _scratch_ , and with a full homosapien body. Synthetic flesh, anatomically accurate, the works. It makes you embarrassingly excited to think about, but nobody back at the labs needs to know that. Said lab being the Washington branch of Skaianet, which was based in New York. It only cropped up in the last decade or so, but spread like a wildfire that was also some sort of horrible disease, and quickly grew to near-CrockerCorp levels of quality scientific research. However, the older company still holds a monopoly on the boxed cake market, which you don’t think Skaianet will be attempting to counter any time soon. 

Along with being _incredibly_ new, especially when compared to it’s main competitor (CrockerCorp, circa 1856) Skaianet is run by three people who are just as young as you. Roxy Lalonde, Jade Harley, and Jake English. 30, 30, and 30. 

You would chop off your own head to meet any of them, for reasons you aren’t entirely certain of. Partially because they’re at the top of the food chain, but partially because you have a bizarre feeling in the back of your head like you’re _supposed_ to know them. 

Of course, this doesn’t make any sort of logical sense and is quickly disregarded. 

The TV calls your attention for a moment with a mention of the name of your insignificant little Washington town. You look up from the small spaghetti-mountain of wires in front of you and focus your attention fully on the report. This is a national news channel. Nothing happens in this miniscule pocket of suburbia interesting enough to warrant a national report, even if it is just fluff and filler. 

There’s a human man on the screen wo you’d place at a few years younger than you, but it’s hard to tell. He’s got a cowlicked mess of dark hair and thick, square glasses. A little bit of a vaguely asian look to him if you pay attention. He’s dressed like a complete and total dork and you didn’t even know that they still sold sweater vests anymore. 

He’s holding a hammer and you’d recognize what it’s intended to look like anywhere - the hammer of the Blue God, said to have belonged to the Heir himself, currently stationed in the religious history museum downtown, which is pretty much the only tourist destination your town has to offer. 

You’re not a religious man yourself, preferring to believe in the elegance of scientific discovery rather than the near blind faith of religion, but you hold no ill will to those who manage to follow their beliefs without resorting to crusade levels of zealotry. And you do have to admit to yourself, that there is actually a decent amount of information pointing to some of what’s written in the common text being factual. 

The hammer in the religious history museum is one of these things. It’s rumored to be unliftable by anyone but the Heir, and that whomever wields the hammer will begin the second coming of the Gods themselves. So far, no one in written history has been actually able to pick the damn thing up - you’ve seen countless people try during your infrequent visits to the museum but no one succeeds. You’ve seen them hook a crane to the fucking thing and just yank on it with full force to no avail. Considering the hammer rests in a 5 by 5 by 5 block of dirt and is in no visible way attached to the floor, it’s unlikely that they were faking it. After all, they had to cut a chunk out of the ground just to get it into the museum in the first place. 

The reporter introduces the man as John Egbert (why is that so familiar?) and goes on to mention how yesterday while . . . chaperoning a school fieldtrip? (the guy does not look old enough to have a school aged kid) he managed to successfully pull the hammer from the place it’s sat since the beginning of the history of either of Earth’s sentient races. Now that’s actually rather interesting. Not to mention the guy looks weirdly familiar, but not like he’s someone you’ve ever known, more like the feeling you’d get when you recognize something from a dream or something you saw on T.V when you were very young. 

You stop to pay attention to the rest of the news report, half expecting this guy to open his mouth and start raving about the end times, but when the reporter starts asking questions he just kind of answers quietly and politely but in a manner that suggests that he is very, very confused. He sort of scrunches up his face and looks down at the hammer with a look that’s half sad and half lost. He answers the questions with the bare minimum of information, which doesn’t make for incredibly interesting television and you can see the reporter’s growing frustration, but his hesitance to answer only piques your curiosity. 

At first, she just has him talk about how he came to be in possession of the thing. He explains that he just picked it up, and it was accompanied by a crazy burst of light (to which dozens of eyewitnesses and security footage can attest) and then he just sort of passed the fuck out. Your wording - not his. Then she asks about him as a person. He gives a few reserved answers answers like he knows that what he’s saying isn’t something anyone cares about, but you also feel like he knows way more than he’s letting on.

You’re surprised the museum officials let the guy keep the hammer, because it’s a priceless and ancient artifact, but the sign boldly claims that whomever could wield it could keep it, and there’s definitely a legal obligation to follow through with what they advertised. 

She asks him if he’s felt any different since the previous day’s events and he squirms a bit before answering with a drawn out  uh . . . yes . . . and the reporter asks him if he’d like to elaborate and no, not really thanks he doesn’t feel like sounding crazy right now. And then he just changes the direction of the conversation with a quick segue about the hammer bringing the attention on to the object instead of himself.

_Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzt! Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzt! Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzt!_

The pizza delivery guy helpfully interrupts your distracted TV viewing, which is far less important than lunch or real work. You pay the guy and grab your pizza and park yourself back in front of the TV, pretty much managing to eat an entire large pepperoni pizza by yourself in one sitting. C’est la vie. God your ma was right, you really need to get out of the house. 

The interview isn’t very long, as the little human interest bits tend not to be, but when it gets near the end you’re pretty sure that this should be treated like it’s slightly important. The interviewer asks the hammer guy if it does anything and he just kind of shrugs says  yeah i guess it does some of cool stuff, ill show you and he picks the thing up, then walks up to one of the trees planted in front of the museum which, for obvious reasons is where they chose to do the interview. 

He lifts it up, and you notice he’s holding it like he knows how to hold, which is a little bit surprising because what kind of suburban dad type has any sort of skill with a warhammer? He pulls his arms back for a swing - not too powerful, probably wouldn’t do more than wind you if it hit you - and brings it around squarely to the trunk of the tree. 

There’s a noise like lightning hitting, and a flash of light, almost like a lightning strike, and a big billowing cloud of smoke coming from the tree that’s now black and charred. It looks like it’s been hit by lightning. Due to your incredible powers of perception, and your borderline supercomputer brain, you figure that the tree was hit by lightning. Woah.

The reporter looks completely terrified and she jumps back about 10 feet. And, judging by the way the view jerks the camera man was caught off guard too. 

The John Egbert guy just looks like he expected exactly this to happen, even though it was a complete bolt from the blue.

It occurs to you a moment after thinking this that you might have accidentally just made a pun and _of course_ that’s what he expected to happen, Gods be damned a _fucking magic hammer._

You are officially 100% interested. The news channel cuts to back to the news anchors who make a quip about how, _gee, Jennifer, that was super interesting! Let’s cut back to Chris with sports!_ And you almost feel kind of cheated because you want to know about the magic hammer guy. Like, holy shit?

You’re beginning to regret not going to church, but your moms weren’t really the church goin’ folks.

You pull your shades off your face so you can distinguish between the colors of the wires. You’re never making _that_ particular mistake again; red looks a lot like orange when seen through dark lenses. But you can’t work. You just can’t. There’s that familiar, tight feeling in your chest that was oh so common in your teenage years, especially before you got on the antidepressants. 

It was like someone had carved a hole in you and stuck their hand in there, then just started mercilessly _twisting_. It nagged at the back of your head like someone had jammed a beehive in your occipital lobe and it spread out through your skin like a thick veil of fog, separating you from the rest of the world, isolating you. Like being shoved into a cold and dark and lonely box and you feel like there’s always something just out of sight, like maybe a small sliver of light that’s maybe there but maybe your imagination. 

It used to happen after you slept, when you had dreams of purple and black, towering cities of pure violet shooting into an endless night. Purple and black and blue like the sea that surrounded you in your dreams and kept you safe and separate like an overbearing mother. 

The dreams were always different but always the same. In the dreams, you were you, but you weren’t. 

You put your glasses back down and lay down on your couch with your laptop safely balanced on your chest. You flip open the lid, and the Delirious Biznasty icon in the corner makes a few little rapid pinging noises, alerting you of online activity that you’ve deemed important enough to monitor. Included in this category is emails, and you have a few dozen new ones from various co-workers and spam bots. And one message that is very interesting to you. 

jade@skaia.net: hi dirk!!  \- hi dirk! youre probably pretty . . .

Obviously from a Skaianet employee, but the address doesn’t comply to the standard first initial, last name format. Unless you were being contacted by a J. Ade. This seems highly unlikely. You know a woman who works in marketing named Jade, but you aren’t exactly close enough to warrant this sort of email. You click it open. 

hi dirk!!

JADE HARLEY [jade@skaia.net]  
to DIRK STRIDER [dstrider@skaia.net]

Wait.

What?

holy shit.  
  
hi dirk!! youre probably pretty confused by this email already so ill try to explain this in a way that makes sense even though it really doesnt over all :B. anyway its me jade! i dont think you remember me although you probably know who i am. i don't exactly remember you either but we will get to that. anyway to make a very long and complicated story shorter and simpler i have very good reason to believe that we are or at least were friends! as this message is being written, i am asleep. my robot functions as me in the waking world while im dreaming. its pretty darn handy for remembering all of this dream nonsense! throughout your life youve had crazy dreams right? ones that take place maybe on a big gold or purple planet in a lot of black space or maybe ones that take place somewhere else but still feel kind of weird? so did i! and they left me feeling pretty icky and sad. almost kind of lonely or like im forgetting something. but you can never remember the whole dream when you wake up :(. as it turns out these dreams are pretty important. i don't know exactly why or how but i do know that getting in contact with others like ourselves can only be beneficial to the cause :D! 

recently some advice while i was asleep has led me to try and send a package to someone named john egbert. hes one of us too! the only problem is that i have no idea where he lives or how to contact him which would be a problem except for you live near him! and because youre an employee i have all your information easily available to me lol! so if you wouldnt mind doing me a huge favor i would love if you could try and get the package to john!!!! sorry that this is a bit unprecedented but its kind of a bit difficult when i cant remember why im doing the things i do. i only have the notes my robot takes and the few slivers of the dream i can remember for reference! anyway thats all :D. dont feel bad if you don't want to do it i don't want to force you into anything! this isnt an order from your boss its just a friendly request from a friend but if you do want to do it thats great and i totally believe that you can do it!!! i have a feeling that youre a smart guy dirk i bet being your friend would be really cool. so if youre willing to be my delivery boy then i can just sendificate the package to you and you can bring it to john.

thanks a bunch!!!  
\- jade

Oh.

Okay . . . then. 

Your first instinct is to reply with snarky, condescending evidence as to why none of this is factual but Skaianet security is _tight._ No one could have a fake email like that. 

You feel incredibly validated because some of your unexplained feelings now have a minor amount of validation. 

You think about it for a moment. 

And think. 

And figure why the hell not? 

  

RE: hi dirk!!

DIRK STRIDER [dstrider@skaia.net]  
to JADE HARLEY [jade@skaia.net]  
  
That sounds doable. Sign me up.

You cringe a bit about sending such a clipped reply but you don’t really know what else you’d have to say. At least being worse was better than the occasional overly extended metaphors you sometimes tended to use.

 

Message sent.

You’re surprised when you get an almost immediate reply but the first message was sent late last night. She must be awake now. 

RE: RE: hi dirk!!

JADE HARLEY [jade@skaia.net]  
to DIRK STRIDER [dstrider@skaia.net]

okay great!!! wow i cant remember whats in this box anymore i bet its really interesting :O. sending it your way right now!

you count approximately 73 seconds before a long, fairly thin green box drops with a small thump and a flash of light onto your sofa. Damn that is some nice technology. Sleek, elegant, functional, like a stallion trained to jump and groomed to show. You’d kill for a sendificator of your own but they’re still in the experimental phase, along with the heavily related appearifier. 

You figure that whatever is in the box isn’t too fragile to drop onto a sofa from the ceiling so logically it can survive a mild amount of shaking. You pick it up. One end is noticeably much heavier than the other, and when you lightly jostle the box back and forth the weight shifts from one side to the other with a muffled clunking noise. 

Two objects, you reason. One longer and thinner, the other fairly blocky. Oh god it is _killing_ you to not know what’s inside the box. You could totally just take a little peek. Reseal it. You’ve got a steady enough hand to keep the green wrapping completely in tact if you wanted to. No one would be the wiser. 

But no. Someone you may or may not completely and totally idolize if you’re being honest with yourself has given you a job to do, and you’re damn well going to do it perfectly. 

After all, you’re Dirk Strider. Perfect is your specialty. 


	2. exit stage left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Stuff Happens: The Chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so close to deleting this entire fic. So close.   
> It's 3 am and I'll code the pesterlogs tomorrow sigh.

It's couple of days before you manage to find a way to get the package to John and a little less than a week before you actually have the ability to act on it. The guy, bizarrely enough, is nobody special as far as you can tell. Then again, you're one to talk. Neither of your lines of work are particularly prestigious. It irks you that it took so long to get the job done, but Jade understands that you're doing what you can. She's one chill lady. 

Your conversations with Jade have been increasingly frequent, increasingly enjoyable, and increasingly perplexing over the few days following your impromptu introduction. Half of the time she chats you (via pesterchum of all things because apparently it's 2009 again) she's asleep and communicating with her dreambot. During the other half she's awake. The waking conversations are simpler, they tend to conform to the logical linearity of a single timeline. This is an extreme contrast to the disjointed and usually one-sided conversations you have with the robot. 

For some reason you don't quite understand the dreaming Jade has different - well, no, not different, per se - but more memories than the waking one. Unfortunately translating brain waves from Jade to the robot causes for a bit of a loss in critical thinking and general eloquence, so the more interesting tidbits of information tend to be infuriatingly vague.

So far, you've figured out the following major points:  
\- There are 13 of you  
\- these people are supposed to be your friends  
\- you've lived more than your remember 

Other than that you understand nothing. It's still more than you knew on Friday. 

You open up your pesterchum to see if Jade is online so you can fill her in on today's plan. She isn't online, but your two other contacts are.

golgothasTerror  
tipsyGnostalgic

Roxy Lalonde and Jake English. 

Jade gave them your chumhandle in a psychotic fit of platonic sportsmanship, awkwardly jamming the olive branch of camaraderie between your two parties with a well intentioned but poorly executed gesture. 

You have no idea what to say to either of them.

You've had one conversation with each of them, both very brief and formal. You mean, they literally run Skaianet. They're the highest on the food chain, and you are but a lowly grunt. Not too lowly, you're the head of your division in the Washington branch, but certainly not nearly on the same level as them. Even with Jade's insistence that you'll all be chummier than a bucket of disemboweled fish parts you can't think of enough common ground to start a casual conversation.

It's not like you've been actively avoiding conversing with them or anything. You haven't been strategically logging off pesterchum at every available moment, even when you're just dicking around on the internet and not really doing anything. 

You're not nervous about it, or too shy to talk to people you've nigh utilized for the past few years. You're just approaching this in a logical, rational way. You figure you'll wait until you have something to talk about to strike up a conversation.

And you certainly didn't harbor a slight puppy crush on the roguishly handsome Jake English with his pseudo Euro-Australian charm. 

That would be ridiculous.

None of those things are things that happened.

Stop asking about it. 

You're about to shut down your computer and get to your actual important business of the day but you're interrupted by the ping of an incoming message.

Oh gods she’s talking to you. 

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 17:12 --

TG: heyyy  
TG: yooooo  
TG: hows it going   
TT: Fine, thanks.   
TT: How are you?   
TG: im doin ffreakin gAWESOME thank u ver y much dirk  
TT: I'm glad to hear that.  
TG: mmmmkkkay  
TG: im gonna cut u off righ ther   
TG: becuase le mte tell u  
TG: this hole u bein super formal thing is nt makin for good convo and probs never will  
TG: u gotta admit that you definitely have been feelin some funny warm lil fuzzies since u started talkin to jade n whatever  
TG: like maybe  
TG: do u feel a little less lonely

Talk about hitting the nail on the head. Lonely is exactly how you'd describe the feeling that you never quite noticed until it eased off a bit. Something had clicked when you met Jade and things had started to seem a little bit more okay. 

TT: Yeah.  
TT: Yeah, I do.   
TG: saem  
TG: same*  
TT: I'm going to go out on a limb and say that this has something to do with the memories we've lost.   
TG: seems 2 b that wya  
TG: at least  
TG: all of the evidence jadeahs gathered seems to point to the fact  
TG: jade* has*  
TG: and lemme tell u that girl is ON THE BALLl when it comes 2 wierd cfreaky sutff like that  
TT: Seems so.   
TT: If you don't mind me asking, why don't you and English have dream robots too?  
TT: Unless you do and I just haven't been made aware of the fact yet.   
TG: nahhhh  
TG: lemme tel u  
TG: that robot is annoying as hell   
TG: like omg knocked over paperwork and broken windoes bcuz it keeps trying to fly n stuff  
TG: wet ook out therockets but the poor tihig doesnt really get it  
TG: and poor jade doesnt rlly get a good ngihts sleep  
TG: having to be sorta concious during sleep doesnt give ur brain a good rest  
TG: she just falls asleep durnig the day at weird times it isnt very convenient  
TG: so yeha il l keep my beueuty sleep tyvm  
TT: I hate to admit it but I think I'd end up choosing the good night's sleep over the bizarre dream conscience robot any day.  
TG: like u need the beautiy sleep n e way  
TG: i seen pictures of u  
TG: ur pretty cute ;)  
TT: Thank you.  
TT: My face is my money maker.   
TT: Thanks to my dashing good looks I've been able to start a fairly successful prostitution business on the side of my career in robotics and engineering.

Not actually that far from the truth.

TT: To support my hordes of illegitimate children, of course.  
TT: My day job pays pretty well but it still ain't enough dough to take care of the adorable little fuckers.   
TT: Picture dozens of incredibly attractive children who look just like their dear absentee daddy Dirk.   
TT: I'm not one for kids but the ladies have difficulty staying away from me and I consider it a civic duty to pass on a decent amount of my genetics.   
TT: Because I'm so attractive.  
TT: And intelligent.  
TG: i think u forgot ur incerdible moditsty   
TT: I did, thanks for the reminder.   
TG: i dont suppose u have a buisiness card for this other job of urs . . .  
TT: Sorry, no.  
TT: I wish I could help you, I really do, but unfortunately as of late I've been persuaded to abandon my life of debauchery by an upstanding gentleman who saw through my cold exterior and found the heart of gold that lay inside.   
TT: Said gent is also part of the clergy and has sent me on the right path by showing me the true Light and Wisdom of the Orchid Goddess.   
TT: Praise be the sun.  
TT: Have you accepted the Saviors into your life?  
TG: lma fuckin g o  
TG: no srry  
TG: but if i did i would stroll right in 2 the nereast gray church  
TG: bend right down in frommt of that alter  
TG: and just be all liek  
TG: damn gods why you gotta make all the cut e guys run off with other guys instead of me  
TG: its startin to be a real porbolem and frankly more of a pattern than i wloud care 2 admit  
TG: would*  
TT: I have similar complaints. 

You check the time quickly, seeing if you can squeeze in a few more minutes of conversation with Roxy. You're really enjoying yourself, to your surprise. Talking to her comes naturally, just like it did with Jade, only moreso. 

Unfortunately, it's already about ten minutes later than you wanted to be out of the house. 

TT: Shit.  
TT: Hey Roxy, I hate to cut the conversation short, I really do, but I've got some stuff to take care of 5 minutes from now at a location 15 minutes away.   
TG: u gotta get the package to johm rite?   
TT: Yeah. Any idea what's in it?   
TG: urgh like a blue rock i tihnk  
TG: and spomething else i dont reall yknow sorry  
TG: ifm u find out though you should tell me i am so curious omfg  
TT: Same here.  
TG: have fun ttyl  
TT: Talk to you later.  
TG: yeah as long as u dont IGNOER ME more   
TG: i see u loggin off when ive been loging on yuo cant hide from em  
TT: I haven't been ignoring you, I've just been busy.  
TG: yeah right  
TG: ok before u type whatever agrument ur typing there u should probs go do that thing u gotta do  
TT: Alright.  
TT: Goodbye for now, Roxy. 

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 17:25 --

And just like that, you're friends with Roxy Lalonde too. 

* * *

The bar is fairly large for a bar, but a fairly standard size for the other venues it serves as. Along with a decent supply of alcohol, the bar has a full restaurant that serves some pretty decent food, and two separate stages, one indoor and one outdoor. Various local, and sometimes slightly less local musicians, comedians, dancers, and other acts are invited to perform if the owner's think it'll rake in a decent amount of cash. 

Tonight you're here to see the magical stylings of one John Egbert. 

You step up to restaraunt counter to order some food because hey, you're here, you might as well eat. You order a burger and fries. Simple, but they do 'em right here. They taste a bit like home in a strange way, but not like something you remember from being younger, more like something you remember having eaten in a particularly vivid dream. 

You have dozens of pseudo memories like this, and you've long since given up trying not to indulge them. 

The first time you swam in the ocean was practically a religious experience for you, as if the Orchid Goddess herself played the waves just right, carving a niche into the foamy abyss to welcome you home. It had felt just like going home. It didn't make any sense though, you had never lived outside of inner city houston. 

You were 8 and walking through a store. You don't remember which one it was anymore, it was too long ago, and it wasn't important. What was important was the rack of cheezy sunglasses by the checkout counter, more specifically the triangular pair that looked like it was ripped straight out of an 80's anime. You thought these things without having seen a single episode of any anime. You had bought them, and graduated to larger/less broken pairs when needed, but hardly anyone has seen you without them since. 

It's a pattern, feeling like things you don't even remember are a part of you. 

After paying for your ticket, you take your seat at a table closer to the back of the large room with the indoor stage. It's a bit too chilly to be doing anything outside, so the performance is in here. You're a few minutes late because of your talk with Lalonde, but Egbert hasn't come on stage yet. 

A gaggle of girls presumably in their late teens takes the large table in front of your, giggling obnoxiously and nearly caving in your nose with their parasols. It is times like these when you wish parasols hadn't maintained their popularity. Humans don't even need them. Trolls used them when they would be out after sunrise, attending parties or going to bars or doing any of those things that humans did after dark. If they didn't use the parasols, they'd burn like gray bacon in a fireplace. It made sense that they'd use them, but eventually higher class humans had taken to carrying the decorative umbrellas as a show of status. Like, somehow that made them closer to trolls in society's view. 

Then, in the mid decades of the 20th century, they had been adapted as a functionless fashion accessory. Sometimes you wish you were a troll so the amount of respect you commanded was decided upon birth instead of the way you dressed.

The Egbert guy comes on to stage and the lights get dim. At the same time, your waitress drops your food off at the table. Fuck yeah motherfuckers. 

He apologizes for being a bit late and makes a cheesy comment about ‘making traffic disappear’, and you feel someone brush up against you uncomfortable close as they audibly scoot their chair as close to you as physically possible. You refuse to acknowledge them and go back to eating your burger. A dark, feminine hand slithers its way into your fries and pulls out two or three really decent looking ones, slathers them in the ketchup piled on the edge of your plate, and pulls them away. 

Okay that is one step past what is acceptable before you’d be willing to kill someone, you don’t fuck around with fries. You turn to your right to get a look at this chick who thinks she can be all up and in your fry business without getting her ass stabbed. You’re met with a grin full of razorblade teeth jutting out from underneath pitch black lips and a pair of threatening red specs like ruby scales on a thin metal frame. 

She’s a troll, and definitely on the higher end of the spectrum with those chompers. You couldn’t tell before due to the horrendous lighting, most of which is pointed towards the stage, and the added darkness from your sunglasses. You had just seen the hand and assumed a human with darker skin. 

“What the hell are you doing with my fries.”

“Eating them.” She shrugs. Her voice is scratchy like she ate brillo cereal for breakfast this morning. Or maybe not, because she’s probably just woken up very recently and is still hungry, judging by the way she tries to go for your fries again. You slap her hand away and a side of her mouth quirks up like she’s about to take it as a challenge.

“Who are you and why do you want my fucking fries? Seriously just stop.”

“I’m Terezi. Terezi Pyrope. And you’re the guy with the green package.” She gestures her sharp chin in the direction of your box. So she’s in on . . . whatever this is. The name sounds familiar, and you glance down at her chest not to check out her rack, but to take a look at her symbol. You can’t make out the color in the dim, off color lighting of the room but you’d guess jade or teal. The symbol itself is two lines, the bottom one straight and the top having a semicircle bump in it. You can’t remember the name, there are hundreds upon hundreds of troll symbols and knowing them rarely matters to a human. 

“Yeah. That’s me. Green package guy, more casually known as Dirk Strider. what of it?”

“I have something for you, Mr. Citrus Twist!” 

“Citrust Twist?” You frown slightly at the nickname.

“Well, the box is a lovely lime green, but your shirt is the most delicious sort of orange. They work nicely together.” Okay there. Maybe it’s some sort of troll power? Higher bloods don't tend to have them but there are some exceptions. 

“So, what have you got?”

“I feel that we should wait for everyone to be here before we go about this exchange, yes?” The way she says this doesn’t make it seems like a question you could offer any other answer to.

“Who else is supposed to be here?”

“I’m not sure . . . my sources have been infuriatingly vague on what exactly is happening. I don’t even know what the goal of all of this is, or why I agreed to it. I’m pretty sure there’s supposed to be another human, right? If you weren’t expecting me then who are you expecting?”

“Oh. Alright then. If there’s just supposed to be one other person then we’re going to be here for a little while. According to my sources, this package is for him.” You gesture to where John is up on stage. just as the crowd gasps audibly and starts to applaud. He must have done something interesting. Maybe you should actually watch the show in a minute. 

“Wait, who?” Pyrope twists her mouth into a shape bizarrely similar to a question mark, minus the little dot at the bottom. You didn’t think it was physically possible, but there it is. There it is. “I can’t really make out where you’re pointing, the lighting is bad in here and the colors smell all wrong.”

What?

“What?”

“I’m BLIND.” She cackles and waves her hand in front of her face, then from around the other side of the chair pulls out a cane you couldn’t see before and jabs you with the end lightly. It’s fairly sharp - if she really wanted to, she could impale a person on that thing. God, that's freaky. “So who’s our third wheel?”

“John. The guy who’s performing.” 

“Ooh! Alright, then. I guess we’ll just settle ourselves down all close and comfy right here and watch the rest of the show, eat some fries, just enjoy ourselves!”

“You’re not eating my fries. Order your own, damn it.”

“Fine, fine, fine! Be selfish, Dirk, that’s a great way to make a first impression.”

She orders her own anyway. 

And you do enjoy yourselves. The show is really good, and pretty damn funny. The guy has mastered the art of looking incredibly bewildered at the things that are happening around him. He manages to get you every time. Every single time. He’ll be doing some tricks that are fairly impressive in their own right, and then appear to fuck up horribly, and every time you believe it, because it takes a decent amount acting to be that distressed about something you planned. They’re all tricks, though, every. Single. One. He works with a table in front of him, stacked with various supplies for his act and covered in a long, blue tablecloth. He turns, at one point, and takes a step away and his cufflink (he’s wearing a rather snazzy suit, like one you’d see on an old fashioned businessman, complete with a fedora that would look douchey on anyone else) is caught on the tablecloth. He yanks everything to the ground and jumps back, startled, dragging it farther. 

“Oh, geez!” He mumbles nervously but audibly, while trying to unhook the cloth from himself, and it’s more than a full minute before he can manage it. He looks morosely at the mess.

“I wonder if I can just . . . yeah, maybe. Wait a minute.” He grabs one end of the tablecloth and whips it up quickly and accurately back to where it was before the objects fell, and everything lifts back up with it. He guides the tablecloth back down delicately and when he steps back the assortment of knick-knacks that were on the table are placed exactly where they were before, including a few items that were stacked at first being precariously re-balanced on top of each other. Holy shit. Everyone claps. 

Later on, he pulls out a candle, some lighter fluid and a deck of cards, saying he’s going to show the audience how to reverse the effects of fire. He sloppily douses the cards in lighter fluid that spills a bit over his arm too. He takes the lit candle up to the deck of cards which he has fanned out in his hand. The cards catch, obviously, but so does his arm and he jumps back, panicked for a second, dropping the candles and cards into a metal tray on the table. The crowd gasps as he fans his arm dramatically and yelps. And then he stops. He just sort of holds out his arm for a moment and stares at it. He sighs. 

“Yeah, okay.” He just says it in such a defeated, flat tone that you can’t help but let out a small chuckle. “Moving on, then!”

He does his next few tricks while being progressively more on fire, which is obviously a trick itself, until a waiter walks by with a tray, on top of which is a jug of water. He snags it and apologizes to the waiter who just turns right back around and throws him a sharp glare. He smiles shyly. He takes his suit jacket off and sets it on the ground lightly and deliberately before nonchalantly dumping the entire pitcher on it. 

He’s wearing suspenders.

It’s cute. What’s also cute is the way he smiles on stage when he’s not making a stupid face. You can tell he genuinely enjoys what he’s doing.

A little while after that he does his last trick and takes everything off of the table and sets it into a gold-star patterned chest. He drops his hat behind the table, and bends down to pick it up, back towards the audience. Now that the cloth is gone you can see through the legs of the table. You keep watching. He puts the hat back on his head and stands up and turns around and that is obviously a completely different person wearing the same clothes what the heck. 

What.

What the fuck?

How do you even . . . no. You can’t do that. You were watching the whole time. You saw everything. The people in the audience who were watching make a ruckus until the people who were getting ready to leave realize what’s going on. John walks onto the stage from the curtains the lead to the back room and the audience goes ballistic, clapping and cheering because seriously how the hell did he do that. He makes that incredibly confused face he’s great at making.

“Who the hell are you?” John asks the other guy who replaced him. Other guy holds his head in his hands 

“I’m not so sure I know anymore.”

“Well at least give me my hat back.” Other guy throws the hat at John and walks off of the stage. John grabs the hat and does a quick little dippy bow, then drags his chest offstage.

“Daaaaamn, that guy was good.” Says Terezi. “Well then, I guess it’s time to go in for the kill!”

“Yeah, I suppose so. What are we even supposed to say anyway? I have no idea to explain what’s happening.”

You probably should have thought about this earlier, you’re about to go in there completely blind as to what sort of encounter this might be. God damn it. You're glad you didn't accidentally make some sort of comment about 'going in blind' out loud.

“Geez, it’s just a conversation, you don’t need to have plan or anything. We just go up to him and say something like, hey, this guy’s got a package with your name on it!” She cackles.

“No, that won’t work. We’re both wearing glasses so he won’t be able to see either of our saucy winks.”

“Damn, that’s right! I guess we will just have to wing it then.”

“We should probably hurry, I don’t want him to leave before we get the chance do . . . deliver our packages, if you catch my drift.”

“Well you know, if that does happen, I’m still here all night.” She grins at you elbows you lightly.

So you and Terezi hop up on the stage even though you’re definitely not supposed to and someone yells at you but you ignore them and you scamper into the back room in a totally cool and suave way. He’s there, bent over the chest from earlier with his supplies in it, shuffling some stuff around. 

“HEY JOHN EGBERT!” Terezi shouts. He startles and hits his head on the open lid of the chest, dislodging his hat. 

He turns around. 

Looks at you.

Looks at Terezi.

Eyes as wide as saucers and a mouth to match and he looks like he’s been blinded by a pair of heavy duty headlights. 

“Terezi? Dirk?” He gasps. “I - what the hell? How much do you two remember?” He scrambles for his feet and walks up to the two of you.

“Damn I feel really underprepared for this because whatever I’m supposed to be remembering, I remember approximately jack shit percent of it.” You say.

“Then how are you here? How do you know who I am?”

“I feel like this is going to be a really long conversation and I hope the contents of this box will clear some things up, so let’s start off by opening it.” You thrust the package into his hands.

“Jade sent this?!?!” He gapes at it, looking at the roughly sharpied label on the side of the box. First name basis, you notice.

“Yeah. Now open the damn thing. It’s killing me, seriously.” He sits cross legged on the floor for better leverage on the package, and you and Terezi follow suit. He opens it. Out tumbles an ornate cane with a draconian head on the top. It’s red and teal and mint gree, accented with white, and on the dragon’s forehead is the symbol of the Teal Church, the Goddess of Mind. The plot thickens.

There’s a second item too. It’s . . . it’s a hunk of blue rock. Score one for Roxy Lalonde. 

“I’m guessing this is supposed to end up with you, Pyrope.” You pick up the cane. John examines the rock with a furrowed brow and a frown. Terezi whips a sword seemingly out of nowhere. She must have a sylladex, not many people do considering how new, expensive and confusing they are.

“That would make the most sense with the pattern of events, here! I think I might be starting to understand what’s happening here, Strider. I guess that means this belongs to you, then.”

She hold out the sword which, upon closer examination, looks exactly like the sword you already own. You offer her the cane and reach for your sword and John looks up from his blue rock his face contorts like he’s looking at a cup of boiling hot coffee he know’s he’s about to spill all over his lap. 

“No wait don’t!” Is the last thing you hear before you grip the hilt of the katana and Terezi takes the can from your hand and the inside of your head explodes with colors and words and sounds like it’s filled with hallucinogenic fireworks.

You pass the fuck out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISING PLOT TWIST: THE SWORD WASN'T IN THE BOX.


End file.
